


The Better Part of Valour

by Ladybug_21



Series: Compartments [1]
Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Backstory, Civil Rights Movement, Closeted Character, F/F, Gen, Oxford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22489495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybug_21/pseuds/Ladybug_21
Summary: December, 1964: A prominent activist speaks at the Oxford Union, and a young Jocelyn Knight faces a choice.
Series: Compartments [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660780
Comments: 26
Kudos: 159





	The Better Part of Valour

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Tine34, green eyed girl, Zeitgeist, and BEE for inspiring this fic with their generous comments on my story [_ab initio_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21894667). I hope that this lives up to all of your expectations for a narrative about a younger Jocelyn Knight trying to figure out her place in the world. When I began scheming up this fic, I knew basically nothing about Oxford in the 1960s. But then I stumbled across [these](https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-30296780) [fascinating](https://www.theguardian.com/film/2019/feb/19/malcolm-x-oxford-kill-me-soon-assassination-tariq-ali) [articles](https://www.theroot.com/why-did-malcolm-x-go-to-oxford-1790877344) while doing some preliminary research, and I suddenly knew that this was a story that I _really_ wanted to write.
> 
> I obviously own no rights to _Broadchurch_ or to any of its characters. And the title of this work is shamelessly cribbed from Shakespeare.

There were always flyers plastered across the bulletin boards just inside the entry of Somerville College Library, announcing lectures and events and opportunities in an array of bright colours. Jocelyn rarely bothered to glance at them as she passed by—she never found the time to go to any of their offerings, anyway—but as she left the library to go find some lunch one afternoon, she encountered Louise studying one of them avidly.

"Hello," said Jocelyn.

"Jocelyn!" Louise glanced up from the page she was perusing and shot her roommate a dazzling grin. "Can't remember the last time I saw you emerge from the library this early. You seen this yet?"

"Seen what?" Jocelyn peered at the flyer, which was for the upcoming Oxford Union debate. " _Extremism in the Defence of Liberty Is No Vice_?"

"We're going, obviously," Louise declared.

"Louise," laughed Jocelyn, "I don't have _time_..."

"Yes, you do," Louise insisted, "because this is a once-in-a-lifetime event, and you'll regret it years from now if you don't let me drag you to it."

"I have readings to finish," Jocelyn rebutted as she followed Louise out of the library and into the quad, "and you _know_ things always pick up right before the winter holidays..."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Louise rolled her eyes, "but think of this as a practical lesson in rhetorical oratory, or something. Besides, when else do you think you'll ever get to see _Malcolm X_ speak?"

"Malcolm who?" Jocelyn stopped with a slight frown outside the Hall.

"Seriously?" Louise too stopped and raised an eyebrow at her friend. "He's _only_ one of the most famous civil rights leaders in the States right now..."

"Ah, one of your fellow Americans," Jocelyn smiled.

"Yeah." Louise tossed her head proudly, her thick braid swinging behind her, as the two entered the Hall in search of lunch. "But that's no excuse for your not having a clue who he is. We'll have to slip the occasional newspaper in between the pages of all of your law textbooks."

Louise's gossip buzzed around the dining hall, oil portraits of severe-looking women frowning down upon the current students from the wood-panelled walls, as if ready to scold them for their excitement.

"Hear he's a bit of a radical when it comes to race, threatening violence if he doesn't get his way..."

"Well, can't really blame him for that, not given what's been in the news. Did you _see_ the footage from last summer, of the police dogs tearing into the crowds...?"

"I don't mind a bit of radicalism. Not like Somervillians weren't radical back during the fight for suffrage, you know."

"But _I've_ heard people say that he's _pro_ -segregation. Thinks blacks shouldn't live with whites."

"That what he's going to debate?"

"Dunno, we'll have to go and see for ourselves, won't we?"

"Looks like you'll have competition getting in the door," Jocelyn joked.

"Don't you even try to squirm out of this," Louise winked, and then she reached across the table and grasped Jocelyn's hand solemnly. "I promise you won't regret it."

And of course Jocelyn believed Louise, because Louise was her best friend, and her smile alone was enough to brighten Jocelyn's day. Long after Louise withdrew her hand to turn and field Imogen's lengthy rant about her horrid tutor, Jocelyn's hand seemed to tingle with the phantom imprint of Louise's.

* * *

Louise lingered behind after the debate, hoping to be able to speak with Malcolm X for a moment or two, but since Louise had proposed a drink on their way back to Somerville, Jocelyn had gone on ahead to snag a table for them at the Eagle and Child. Actually, Jocelyn enjoyed being able to turn everything over in her mind in the silence that accompanied her chilly solo walk to the pub. Louise hadn't exaggerated when she promised that the debate would be a lesson in rhetoric. Malcolm X was a magnetic speaker because of his sheer charisma, but Jocelyn had been equally captivated by the self-assured rhythm and the simple force of his words. The way he talked about power imbalances, about the right to take extreme measures to guarantee liberty and justice, about the use of propaganda to alienate and demonise anyone seen as counter to mainstream views—it was all new and unfamiliar and slightly frightening to Jocelyn, and yet she had sat rapt through the entire debate.

 _I never try and hide what I am_ , Malcolm X had declared, at one point. Jocelyn certainly hadn't agreed with every word that he had spoken that evening, but those words echoed over and over within her mind.

Jocelyn took a seat in the pub and pretended to study the menu, all the while still thinking about bombings in the Congo, about behavioural double-standards for black men in America, about Shakespeare. When she heard her name mentioned at an adjacent table, though, she stopped thinking about Malcolm X, although she still continued to steadfastly study the menu.

"Her? Oh, one of the girls reading law over at Somerville. Something Knight. Josephine Knight? Can't remember; point is, don't try your luck with her, Danny, word is she's nigh unfuckable."

Jocelyn stiffened, but she refused to give the lads the satisfaction of seeing how stung she felt.

"Ugh, wouldn't fuck a girl who was reading law, anyway," Danny snorted. "Don't imagine she'd be any fun. Probably as dried-up and withered as all those books she's always got her nose in. Or too shrill—all the barristers I know are always quarreling, and I can only imagine a woman barrister would be even worse."

"Oh, I don't know," smirked a third boy. "Common girls are usually good for a laugh, and what is it her father does? Isn't he a shopkeeper, maybe a plumber?"

"Now, now, Gideon!" A fourth boy leered at the third. "The Barren Barrister over there isn't _common_ —don't you know, her dad's a Knight!"

The lads roared with laughter. Jocelyn kept her eyes fixed on the menu, trying to hold back the hot tears gathering in the corners of her eyes. She jumped slightly when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"Jocelyn?" Louise took a step backwards as Jocelyn stood, the legs of her chair grating against the floor as it slid backwards. "You okay?"

"Not really fancying a pint tonight," Jocelyn muttered, and she swept out of the pub before Louise could stop her.

"Jocelyn!" Louise was several inches shorter than her friend, and it took a few moments for her to catch up to Jocelyn's rapid footsteps. "Hey, don't listen to assholes like those St John's boys, what the hell do they even know about you..."

"You don't understand." Jocelyn's breath escaped her in harsh gasps on the verge of sobs. "Louise, tonight made it clear to me that there is _so much_ I don't understand about race in the US. You have to believe me when I tell you that, as an American, there's just as much that you don't understand about how class works here. It's not that I even care about those bastards' opinions, it's that it _doesn't matter_ if I get a degree from Oxford and become a bloody Queen's Counsel—to people like them, I'll still always be nothing more than the daughter of a shopkeeper." She smiled humourlessly. "Ironic, since back home, everyone sees me as the great pride and joy of Broadchurch. The local girl who went away to boarding school and learned to speak with a posher accent and somehow bluffed her way into the upper echelons of British society. Well, let's hope they never find out what a disappointment I really am."

Louise responded with silence, but after half a block, she finally said, "You're right, I don't really understand what it's like to grow up in a country with a formal aristocracy. To me, it's still exotic and glamorous to be here, surrounded by the sons of lords; but I know I only feel that way because I don't have to live with that whole system for the rest of my life. So, no, I can't quite understand how deeply it must hurt you, to hear people making snide comments about you like that. But I am sorry that you have to put up with it. And I think I can at least empathise with how you must feel, always having to worry about whether the person you're talking to knows who your parents are, and about whether they would care, if they did."

She stopped and turned towards Jocelyn, her dark eyes bright with passion.

"You know the real reason I wanted to go hear Malcolm X talk tonight, Jocelyn? It's because I'm black. If you saw me with my mom, you could tell; but I somehow got skin from my dad's side that's light enough that I can pass as white. I _do_ pass as white. It's just easier that way. And it's not that I'm _ashamed_ of being black, I'm really not, it's just... you can only put up with so much hatred in one day, you know? You can only waste so much of your energy doubting your right to exist, and _especially_ to exist in a place like this, because of how other people perceive you as being inferior for something you can't control."

"I think you're brilliant," Jocelyn replied stupidly, because it was true, and because it seemed infinitely more appropriate than telling Louise that her race didn't make the slightest difference in Jocelyn's determination that she was the most miraculous woman Jocelyn had ever encountered in her life.

"Well, you're one of the more enlightened human beings I've met," Louise laughed with only a touch of bitter sorrow. She began walking again, Jocelyn matching her strides, and then continued. "But hearing Malcolm speak tonight changed something. Unlike me, he can't hide his blackness. He has to live that reality every single day. And he does it _so unapologetically_. He's not afraid to ask for equality, and to stand up to all of the people who tell him to be patient, after decades and decades and centuries of waiting. It makes me feel like a coward, for hiding behind my white-passing face like I do. Maybe it'll make things a little tougher for me on a daily basis to stop hiding, but this is my fight, too, after all."

Without missing a step, Louise reached back and loosened her hair from its ever-present braid. And Jocelyn watched it spring free, full and curly, bouncing around Louise's shoulders in the intermittent pools of streetlight and the soft glow of winter moonlight overhead.

* * *

Jocelyn had always been a frequent visitor to the little local library in Broadchurch, but she became such a fixture there over the Christmas holidays that Mrs Tavener, the librarian, began to scold her good-naturedly whenever she showed up with her books.

"Jocelyn, dear, is this how you are the year round at Oxford?" she clucked. "Life's about more than just reading, you know. Think of all the nice young men you're probably missing because you're too busy studying!"

And Jocelyn wrinkled her nose slightly, confused, because wasn't she at Oxford to _learn_? What did nice young men have to do with anything? And why didn't the thought of all of those hypothetical nice young men excite her, when she knew that most young women her age would giggle, their hearts suddenly pattering slightly faster? She shook off the nagging doubts and fears and took a seat at a table, placing her bag of books on the chair next to her. Jocelyn had plenty of questions about the law, as well, but they existed in a regulated and orderly world of books and courts and precedent. Far less perilous to try to tackle those questions than any of the ones about her own life.

Christmas came and went. Jocelyn took long walks along the windswept cliffs of Broadchurch, bundled in scarves against the cold, her hands shoved into her pockets. It wasn't that she was ashamed of her little town and her family, Mum quietly reading detective novels in the living room while Dad watched boxing on telly ("This Cassius Clay—Muhammad Ali, whatever he's calling himself now—well, I may not much like his politics, but you just watch him in the ring, Jocelyn, _that's_ how a fighter wins!"). But Jocelyn had been out into the wider world, had seen how people lived beyond the comfortable edges of Dorset, wanted to be important and respected and powerful in the most prestigious circles of the British elite. It wasn't enough to be the shining hope of Broadchurch; Jocelyn had outgrown her childhood home, and its quiet contentment with the sky and the sea. She sat in the grass above the cliffs, looking out onto the winter sun glinting low on the horizon off the surface of the waves, daydreaming about a future in London where people would know that she was the daughter of a shopkeeper, but they wouldn't _care_ because she also was the most brilliant and acclaimed barrister the Old Bailey had seen in a generation.

 _Because that's what Louise would do_ , Jocelyn reminded herself, thinking of Louise's gorgeous smile and her hair flowing about her shoulders in the moonlight. _She wouldn't be afraid to show the world who she was, and she'd demand respect even if people didn't immediately approve of what they saw._

And so, when Hilary term began, Jocelyn arrived back at Oxford filled with new resolve.

"I've been thinking," she told Louise one evening. "About Malcolm X and all."

"Mmhm?" Louise replied. She was lying on her stomach on her bed re-reading _Henry IV, Part 1_ , her arms folded beneath her chin, the Rolling Stones singing tinnily from a transistor radio on her night stand. She quirked her head at Jocelyn in a way that made her glossy curls tremble around her face.

"Well, really about what you said afterwards. About not being ashamed. About choosing not to hide who you really are anymore, even when you could do so easily. I thought about it a lot over the holidays, and I've decided that I'm tired of feeling ashamed, too."

Louise's eyebrows inched upwards, and she sat up on her bed and turned off the radio.

"I'm listening," she said.

Jocelyn shrugged.

"Well, I mean, I'm hoping that it won't matter much after uni, anyway. London can't be nearly as close-minded as Oxford, no matter how conservative the legal profession might be. And I intend to be _good_ at what I do, Louise—a good enough barrister that no one will mind. Not that I expect it to come up that much, anyway; I don't imagine that barristers need to discuss their personal lives much with their clients, without good cause."

"It still takes bravery, though, to tell the world who you really are," Louise reminded her. "And I promise it doesn't matter at all to me, Jocelyn, even if I can't really relate..."

"I know," Jocelyn nodded. "And that's fine, really. Like you put it, you'll be able to go back to the States after all of this, where class just works differently."

Louise blinked.

"Yeah," she said slowly, then seemed to shake herself. "Hang on... yeah. Sorry, I thought..."

Jocelyn tilted her head quizzically at Louise, who waved her hands in the air with a bemused grin.

"Wow, I thought that this conversation was going in a very different and much more complicated direction for a moment, my mistake," she explained. "But I'm glad that you're not going to let those jerks from St John's mess with your head, or anyone else, for that matter. You're gonna be an incredible barrister, Jocelyn. Don't ever let people make you feel like you're anything less, just because you're a woman or middle-class, or anything else."

"Right, thanks." Jocelyn hesitated. "Er, what did you—"

"Nothing." Louise smiled. "Sorry for jumping to premature conclusions. But I really appreciate that you feel comfortable talking with me about stuff like this. And I'm always happy to field your thoughts, even if I can't offer any substantive advice on how to help."

Jocelyn nodded slowly, then retreated to her desk, to the safety of black-letter law, before she could question too thoroughly what Louise had thought she meant. But the question trailed Jocelyn as the term wore on, followed her from the library and past the construction on the far end of the quad, wound between the other young women chatting on the lawns, tiptoed after her into Darbishire and slipped in through the door of Jocelyn's room even when she tried to shut it outside. Jocelyn tried to drown it out with Blackstone and Coke and Burke, with opinions from the Queen's Bench and from Chancery, in treatises and articles. But she watched other Somervillians laugh and flirt with the boys from the surrounding colleges—and she wondered, without venturing too far into the depths of her emotions, still too afraid to open certain doors and peer at what might be inside.

And meanwhile, there was still Louise, humming along to the Beatles as she got ready for classes in the morning. _I should have known better with a girl like you, / That I would love everything that you do, / And I do, hey hey hey, and I do..._ There was Louise, who quietly left plates of cheese and crackers next to Jocelyn's desk when she worried that the law student wasn't feeding herself properly. There was Louise, diligently delving into her Shakespeare with an exuberance that Jocelyn simply couldn't imagine applying to even the law that she loved so much.

" _Yet herein will I imitate the sun, / Who doth permit the base contagious clouds / To smother up his beauty from the world_ ," Louise read aloud one evening, before adding, "God, Prince Hal is _such_ a useless mess until he finally has the guts to take responsibility for who he is!"

Because Jocelyn never did read the news, she never touched the various magazines that Louise left scattered about. But her curiosity got the better of her one evening, and she was perusing a magazine picked up off the rug when Louise waltzed through the door.

"Sorry, I hope you don't mind," Jocelyn said, gesturing with the magazine.

"Oh, god, not at all! Learning anything new?"

"I'm currently reading a profile on this organiser." Jocelyn glanced down at the magazine. "Bayard Rustin?"

"Aha." Louise grinned. "That makes sense to me, he seems like your type."

"How so?" asked Jocelyn.

"He's pretty much on the opposite end of the spectrum from Malcolm X," Louise explained. "Literally taught Dr King about Gandhi's methods of non-violent protest. Hell of a social organiser and activist. I wish he got more credit for his work, but they keep sidelining him for optics purposes."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he's an easy punching bag." Louise rolled her eyes. "Strom Thurmond kicked up a _huge_ fuss just before the March on Washington, back in '63, over Rustin being a pacifist and an ex-Communist and an open homosexual, and the movement downplayed his leadership in coordinating the March. Everyone who pays attention knows who he is, but the principle of the matter still rankles. Anyway, sorry for the lecture. I'm about to meet Julian and Imogen and Peter for dinner; do you want to join? Or do you want me to bring you back anything?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks," said Jocelyn, her heart beating quicker than usual even after Louise had grabbed an extra scarf and strolled out the door again. She finished reading about Bayard Rustin, then set aside the magazine and tried to focus on her readings for school, but her mind kept wandering. Bayard Rustin was a civil rights leader and a man who openly loved other men. Even if sometimes vilified and shunted aside by people who were too prejudiced or too afraid, Bayard Rustin was known as a respected leader among the people who _mattered_. It was possible, then, to be that different, and to still be able to make an enormous difference.

When Jocelyn heard the latch of the door turn, her heart began to hammer. She knew that she wanted to say _something_ to Louise; knew that even if her roommate wasn't like her, she would still listen, she would still _care_ about Jocelyn. Just telling Louise (telling _anyone_ ) would be such a burden off of Jocelyn's mind—Jocelyn really didn't expect anything else to come of such a conversation. She bit her lip, trying to calm her nerves.

But when Louise entered, there were tears in her eyes.

"Are you all right?" Jocelyn asked instead, half-rising from her chair.

Louise pulled off her knit hat and her scarf and collapsed into the chair opposite Jocelyn with a sigh.

"They shot him," she said in a dull voice. "Malcolm's dead."

Jocelyn's hand flew to her mouth in shock.

"Who?"

"Nation of Islam, FBI, who the hell knows." Louise rubbed brusquely at her eyes with the back of one hand. "I'm so tired, Jocelyn. So unspeakably tired. When is this all going to end? It's too much to bear, especially being over here, where there's nothing I can do about any of it. And I'm just not sure I have the willpower to keep on being as fearless as I should be."

Jocelyn watched wordlessly as Louise slowly pulled her hair back and began winding it into its old braid. Perhaps she would have said something if she could have seen how the next several decades would play out: the Voting Rights Act of 1965, Thurgood Marshall, Stonewall, Maureen Colquhoun, Barack Obama, marriage equality. But Jocelyn lacked the benefit of foresight, and as she watched the one person she had trusted to be brave forever make a sudden retreat, her own courage failed her. Bayard Rustin was braver than Jocelyn was; _needed_ to be braver than Jocelyn was, because he, like Malcolm X, already existed with a target on his back. But Jocelyn, like Louise, could afford to hide from that sort of hatred. It meant living in a different sort of fear, but it seemed safer.

"Is there anything that I can do?" Jocelyn asked.

Louise smiled wanly.

"Become one hell of a lawyer," she replied. "And fight the good fight for the people who can't do it themselves."

* * *

Something changed in Louise after that evening. She remained as fiercely dedicated to her studies as always, and as fierce a friend to Jocelyn as ever, but an imperceptible weariness hung over her demeanour, a sort of resignation about the state of the world. The political magazines disappeared from the floor, and Louise's transistor radio remained switched off in the evenings. It wasn't that Jocelyn loved her friend any less, but she desperately missed the laughter and the fire that used to characterise the old, fearless Louise.

Louise received her degree that spring, and Jocelyn helped her pack up all of her things for her pending move back to the States.

"Can I confess something?" Louise said, sitting on top of one of her suitcases on her last evening at Somerville as she and Jocelyn split a pack of biscuits. "I feel like I've really let you down."

"How so?" Jocelyn asked.

"Just, I've had a rough past few months emotionally, and I feel like I've dragged you into all of my melodrama," Louise shrugged. "When really, this is your first year at university, and you should have been focused on figuring yourself out."

"I've figured out a lot about myself," Jocelyn protested, which was true.

"Good." Louise smiled. "I feel so lucky to have gotten to know you, Jocelyn. You're gonna change the world, once you leave this place. Just don't doubt how extraordinary you are, and don't let the prestige-obsessed idiots around here distract you from what's really important."

Jocelyn reached out and took Louise's hand.

"I wish I could even begin to explain to you how much that means to me," she said quietly. "How much _you_ mean to me."

Louise waited for a moment, and when Jocelyn didn't say anything more, she gave Jocelyn's hand a squeeze.

"I already know," she said with a warm smile. "And you know, you don't need to explain anything to me, Jocelyn—or to anyone else, for that matter, until you're ready."

"You're not disappointed in me?" Jocelyn hated that her voice was trembling on the verge of unspilled tears. "For not being as brave as you were."

"Well, people in glass houses, after all," Louise reminded her with a bitter laugh, unconsciously running her hand through her hair. "Nah, of course I'm not disappointed in you. It's completely your call—who to tell, and when. Just don't bury it so deep inside of you that you cut yourself off from other people, okay? You're never gonna be the best version of yourself until you come to terms with the things that make you different and learn to be proud of them."

Jocelyn nodded, sniffling.

"I'll miss you so much," she whispered. "I'm afraid I won't remember how to be strong without you here."

"You will," Louise reassured her. "You'll find other people who will remind you how to be strong. Who will remind you why it's _worth_ being strong. Hopefully ones who can give you what I can't. And, speaking as someone who thinks the world of you, boy, do I envy them."

But when Jocelyn returned to Somerville the next year, Louise's absence felt all the more acute, and she locked herself back in the library, studying late into the nights. She tried to remember the feeling of Louise's hand in hers, caring and confident, but all the while, the murmurs of the people around her grew louder and louder. Pressure, prestige, pupillages—Jocelyn shut her eyes, tried to ignore the mounting crescendo of voices telling her what she should want from her legal career, how she needed to go about it, whom she needed to ingratiate herself to, how she needed to present herself to the world.

Early in her career, when she felt she had finally found her footing as a barrister in the fast-paced world of London, Jocelyn managed to break loose from the roaring currents of conformity that surrounded her, and she took a brief prosecuting crimes committed against the immigrant communities of Whitechapel. She could almost imagine Louise's smile at the fact that she, Jocelyn Knight, was finally doing what she had promised her roommate she would do, all those years ago—finally fighting the good fight for the people who couldn't do it themselves. But then came Thatcherism, and deviation suddenly became dangerous. Jocelyn, on an upwards trajectory, ducked her head and kept quiet, worked tirelessly on carefully selected cases that would win her acclaim, told herself over and over again that she would go back to making Louise proud, once it became safe again to be different, once _she_ had become secure enough in her position to take risks.

Yet Jocelyn still hesitated, even after she became the Queen's Counsel that she had always so desperately wanted to become, even after she finally felt _accepted_ by all of the stodgy blue-blooded men around her. Even after she took on a brilliant young pupil, who _never_ hesitated to speak her mind and berated Jocelyn evermore to fight Louise's old fights—no doubt because Sharon Bishop (like Malcolm X, like Bayard Rustin, like Martin Luther King Jr) simply could not hide what made her different from the majority of her peers, and so embraced it for all its worth. But Jocelyn had piled up more winnings than she knew what to do with, and that made any gamble seem all the more foolhardy. Try as she might, she still couldn't quite bring herself to show her hand, rather than to fold.

Until finally, someone else took Jocelyn's hand and reminded her how to be strong.

**Author's Note:**

> By the way, if you want to read a [transcript](http://malcolmxfiles.blogspot.com/2013/07/oxford-union-debate-december-3-1964.html) or watch [footage](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auWA7hMh5hc) of Malcolm X's debate at the Oxford Union, please do check out his powerful words at the above links. History also really should say more about the remarkable [Bayard Rustin](https://www.pbs.org/wnet/african-americans-many-rivers-to-cross/history/100-amazing-facts/who-designed-the-march-on-washington/), who was so integral to the success of the 1963 March on Washington and to Dr Martin Luther King Jr's non-violent protest methods generally. And I owe an intellectual shout-out to Professor Kenji Yoshino of NYU School of Law, whose book _Covering_ was the first time I encountered comparative (and intersectional) analyses of the phenomena of passing and '[covering](https://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/15/magazine/the-pressure-to-cover.html)', from the perspectives of both race and sexual orientation.
> 
> Last but definitely not least, Happy Black History Month, to all you Americans reading!


End file.
